


let's freefall

by celestialfics



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Competition, F/F, Pining, Rivalry, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9793973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialfics/pseuds/celestialfics
Summary: When Mila first sees Sara Crispino without her skates, she expects her to act akin to how she performs on the ice: sharp, calculated, beautiful, and ruthless. Only one of these things is true, but she’s somehow captivating in entirely different ways.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i love mila so much i hope that we can learn more about her in the future... but until then... have this :p
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing this, and it's for saramila week 2017! the prompt i decided to use is "competing" !  
> hope you enjoy ! <3

When Mila first sees Sara Crispino without her skates, she expects her to act akin to how she performs on the ice: sharp, calculated, beautiful, and ruthless. Only one of these things is true, but she’s somehow captivating in entirely different ways.

Sara is young—she’s four years older than Mila, but she’s still young. Without her skates, she exudes a certain softness. Her hips bump into tables and into men at the banquet, and her brother, whose name Mila can’t seem to recall, follows her like a lost puppy. Mila wants to approach her, to ask her about her choreography or _something_ , though Mila has a sinking feeling that Sara wouldn’t be interested in conversing with her.

Because Mila is sixteen, and Sara is twenty and confident and _beautiful_. So, Mila bites her tongue and watches Sara from across the room. Sara doesn’t notice her—a fly on the wall.

The banquet is elitist, and Mila’s gown itches at the top hem. Sara laughs at something a man says, her head tilting back and black hair flipping over her shoulders. Somehow, it seems disingenuous, but it’s not Mila’s place to say. Sara’s brother barks at her, and Sara plants a kiss on his cheek. Mila redirects her gaze to the champagne glass she holds with the pads of her fingers, swirls around the shimmering red liquid as if inspecting it closely will change the fact that it’s regrettably not real champagne.

Mila leaves the banquet early. Viktor attempts stopping her on her way out, but he’s soon whisked away by Christophe before his efforts can prevail, so Mila continues, unbothered, on her path.

The shower she takes back in her hotel room is cold and horrible; her hair sops and drips from where it falls at the bottom of her shoulder blades. The girl she’s rooming with made sure that Mila knew she wouldn’t be returning until late, and Mila appreciates the time alone.

She sweeps the shower curtain aside and steps out of the shower onto the cold bathroom tile. The mirror is fogged from the shower, but it clears as Mila dries herself with a pristine hotel towel. She can see her reflection in it by the time she’s dried the majority of her skin, the towel draped around her neck.

Mila stares at herself in the mirror, at her long, sopping hair and at the gooseflesh that forms in paths as droplets from her hair trail down her arms and chest. Her acne hasn’t settled for the past few weeks—due to stress or hormones or both, she’s not sure—and she tilts her head to observe the spots on and just under her jawline.

Then, she clutches at the porcelain basin. She stares herself in the eyes and promises herself that she’ll do better next year. She’ll practice and she’ll persevere and she’ll prevail. She’ll be able to hold herself as confidently as the other skaters do—as Sara Crispino does.

Mila sighs, and she grabs ahold of the hairdryer that’s attached to the wall. The heat of it blasts her in the face, but she maneuvers it as she dries her hair. She finds herself absently wondering what Sara’s doing, but shakes the thought away. She’s probably still at the banquet, celebrating her third place victory.

As an afterthought, Mila twirls her hair up into a bun. Maybe when she gets back to Russia, she’ll cut it off like Viktor did.

—

Mila doesn’t notice this specifically until a year later, but Sara is not especially passionate. She skates, mechanical and beautiful, but that’s all that it is, what Mila sees on the surface. There’s no depth. Sara jumps, and she lands, and she glides. But she doesn’t—doesn’t _feel_.

Perhaps it’s not Mila’s place to say.

“You can beat her,” Viktor says from behind, sliding a hand onto Mila’s shoulder and squeezing once, encouraging.

Mila’s short program score from the day prior says that she _cannot_ beat Sara Crispino.

“I don’t think so, Vitya.” Mila shakes her head, glancing at the pale hand on her shoulder. She thinks that her face is probably paler than that, and frankly, she regards that as a feat on its own.

Viktor blinks at her. “Mila,” he says with a frown. “Remember what you came crying to me about last year.”

“I didn’t come _crying_ —”

“ _Mila Babicheva_ , last year’s soft little lamb,” Viktor speaks dramatically, sweeping a hand gracefully through the air for emphasis. Suddenly, his gaze sharpens. “She’s turned into a wolf. Show them all that, okay?”

Mila swallows harshly and nods curtly, stepping out of Viktor’s grasp to turn around and face him. Viktor smiles gently at her, and, after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Mila says, “I’ll show them.”

Viktor’s grin spreads wider as Mila opens her eyes again, and he claps his hands.

“Alright! That’s great,” he says, and he leans forward to kiss Mila’s cheek. “I don’t know that you’ll be able to outdo _me_ , but—”

Mila shoves him away. “Okay, Vitya. And you were doing _so_ good. You should have shut up about thirty seconds ago.”

Viktor feigns hurt, but proceeds to laugh, and Mila, shaking her head, turns to Yakov, who stands at the edge of the rink.

Sara has just finished her free program, and she stands in the middle of the ice, her arms outstretched towards the ceiling and her breathing rattling her entire body. She holds the pose for only a few moments, but Mila’s eyes lock on her and sear the image to memory.

“I’m going to beat her,” Mila says aloud, mostly to herself, but at such, Yakov claps her on the back.

“That, you are,” Yakov replies, and Mila watches as Sara skates off of the ice, crying as she collapses into her brother’s arms.

When Mila skates, she should probably be aiming for gold, for the number one skater in the world—the spot that’s currently held by a gorgeous but unbelievably intimidating woman from Spain—but right now, when she’s seventeen and impressionable and when while she may be a wolf, she’s only just a baby one, she aims for third. No—Mila aims for Sara Crispino.

And maybe Mila can’t land a Triple Lutz-Triple Loop, but as she sets her skate onto the ice and then glides her way to the middle, she has determination. She strives, she reaches, she grabs hold, and she pulls.

Right now, she pulls—pulls herself up with a rope from the well she’d cast herself down into last year. She pulls the other competition closer with each cut into the gleaming ice, each leap and each landing, no matter how shaky. She pulls and she claws, she cuts and she glides, she sways and she twists.

And before she knows it, she’s standing center stage again, her arms outstretched on either side of her. After she finishes holding the pose, she pants and searches the edge of the rink for—she’s not sure what, until her eyes land on Sara.

Sara doesn’t look back at her; her gaze is fixed upwards, anxiously awaiting Mila’s score. Mila tears her eyes away, only to see Viktor and Georgi beckoning her towards them. She obliges, though she feels about ready to collapse.

She _does_ collapse when she gets to them, an arm around each of their shoulders. They support her to the Kiss and Cry, and Georgi offers her a water bottle after she’s sat next to Yakov.

It’s mostly a blur, as Mila stares at the screen, wipes at her eyes, and is suddenly being smothered by Yakov’s joyful embrace.

 _Oh_ , Mila thinks, mind otherwise clear, _I beat her_.

—

At the banquet, Mila learns that Sara is not vindictive. She’s actually the first of Mila’s opponents to approach her, and she does so with a smile. It takes only a moment for Mila to assess that Sara’s smile holds no malicious intent.

“Congratulations, Mila!” she exclaims, and she opens her arms, inviting Mila in for a hug.

Mila takes up the offer, wrapping her own arms around Sara’s waist as Sara stands on her tiptoes to throw her arms loosely around Mila’s neck. They part after only a moment, and Mila’s not sure if he’s been here the whole time or if he just appeared, but Sara’s brother—Mila now recognizes him as Michele—stands by her side.

“I didn’t know you’d shape up to be such tough competition!” Sara comments, one of her hands still sitting upon Mila’s shoulder. She squeezes playfully before retracting her hand.

After offering a close-lipped smile, Mila says, “Thanks.”

“Of course, of course. You beat me, after all,” Sara states, but then her smile falls and her features turn serious. “I won’t lose next year, though.”

Mila blinks at her, unsure of how to respond. Her heart jumps into her throat.

Sara stares only a moment longer before she starts to laugh. “Did I scare you?” she asks, laughter bubbling out from her chest.

Mila lets out a sigh of relief. “Yes,” she admits, and as Sara continues to smile at her, her pink dress suddenly feels too tight.

Then, Sara turns to face her brother. “Mickey,” she says, “Would you mind getting us some champagne?”

And Mila will be damned if she says anything about being seventeen, although part of her suspects that Sara already knows. It’s fine, though, since Yakov already told Mila earlier that since she’d come from behind and taken third place, she could do whatever she wanted.

“I got rid of him,” Sara whispers to Mila after he’s gone, which causes her to snort.

“That’s what that was?”

Sara nods, and then points over to where Michele’s been sidetracked into a lively conversation with Emil. “That worked out _better_ than I planned,” Sara says, “Emil will keep him busy for awhile.”

Mila nods, wondering if Sara just wanted to get away from Michele or if she herself had anything to do with this. The latter is promptly squashed when—

“Hey, Mila, how do you feel about being my wingwoman for the night?”

“Wing—” Mila chokes out in shock. “What?”

Sara spins a thin section of her hair around her index finger. “I was thinking Otabek Altin. He’s the bronze medalist, you know, so…”

Mila sighs. “So I have something in common with him,” she finishes Sara’s thought.

“Glad you agree!” Sara exclaims, but Mila raises her arms in an ‘X’ in front of her.

“Nuh-uh, nope. I’m not doing that,” she states, and though Sara starts to pout, as soon as she looks past Mila, her jaw drops and eyes grow wide. “What? What is it?” Mila inquires, turning to look where Sara looks.

And there, in all his glory, stands a piss drunk Yuuri Katsuki, his blue tie wrapped around his head and his shirt all undone. Mila frowns. _Poor guy_.

“Oh—oh, my god,” Sara gapes, taking her phone out of the purse that hangs at her side.

Mila makes a mental note to thank Yuuri later for getting her out of wingwoman duty.

—

The next time Mila sees Sara is at the Rostelecom Cup in Russia. It’s different this time, though; Sara isn’t some kind of barely reachable enigma anymore.

They’ve kept in touch, as they traded phone numbers at the end of the previous banquet to send each other the pictures they’d taken—which mostly benefited Mila, who could use some of the photos to blackmail Viktor if necessary.

Sara sits next to Mila at the Men’s free skate event, which strikes Mila as unusual. Normally, Sara would be down at the edge of the rink, supporting Michele. Something seems to being going on with the twins, though, and Georgi mentions something about “lost love.” Sara doesn’t speak; she watches Michele with what seems like nervous fervor. She begins to cry during Michele’s performance, and eventually abandons Mila and Georgi to meet her brother when he finishes his performance.

Mila just lets them be. Whatever’s going on, Mila thinks it’s for the better.

The next day, though, at the Women’s event, Sara is not so worried about her brother, anymore. She’s more occupied with herself, practicing dance moves in the hallway to warm up. Mila waves at her as she passes, and Sara tosses her a slight grin before her face falls back into concentration.

Sara has to perform first, so Mila leaves her to her warm-up routine. Mila, however, is set to perform last, so she has some time to wait. She takes a seat in the corner of the room, while some of the other skaters and their coaches huddle around the television.

Mila absentmindedly sips at a water bottle as she observes the scene laid out before her; there’s only one skater younger than Mila here, from the Philippines, and she seems more nervous than even Mila had been for her senior debut.

She tries to think about what would have made her feel even a smidge better when she’d been younger and drowning in anxieties.

After deciding on something, Mila presses herself up and off of the chair before leaning down to grab another bottle of water. She approaches the girl with a gentle smile.

“Hey,” she says, holding the water bottle out for her. “Stay hydrated.”

The younger skater looks up at Mila with wide, panicked eyes. Mila’s features soften even further, and she nudges the water bottle forward in the air, prompting her to take it once again.

She does, this time, with a shaking hand. “Thank you,” she says, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink.

“No problem,” Mila answers, reaching forward to set a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You’ll do great out there.”

“Thank you!” she says again, and stutters out, “Y—You, too!”

Mila chuckles inwardly. “Thank you,” she replies and she offers the girl one last soft grin before turning to go and sit back down. She suddenly understands what Viktor meant when he called her a “soft little lamb.” (But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to punch him any less for it.)

Sara should be starting at any time, so Mila decides to make her way out into the rink to watch.

Mila can feel anxiety swimming around just under her skin, but it’s manageable—welcome, even. She’s coming in today with a good short program score, and while she may not be _Jean-Jacques Leroy_ , her free skate isn’t just something to bat an eyelash at. Yakov has been telling her to aim for gold, because she could reach here at Rostelecom, surely. And so, she sets her sights. But first—on Sara.

As far as Mila knows, Sara’s just aiming for Grand Prix qualification. Her short program hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as she’d surely hoped it would, so she has a shaky footing, but Mila still thinks—hopes, perhaps—that Sara will qualify.

Truthfully, Mila feels more nervous as she watches Sara take a deep breath and release the tension from her shoulders than she feels when just focusing on herself.

“And our first skater, Sara Crispino, takes to the ice!”

The loudspeaker and the crowd’s cheers drown out any other sounds, though Mila wishes she could hear the sharp slicing of Sara’s skates as she slides across the ice, or the heavy breaths that accompany the rise and fall of Sara’s chest as she stands at the center of the rink, waiting for the music to begin.

At the first chord, Sara takes off. She swoops, letting her body weight propel her forward, building her momentum for her first jump. The top half of Sara’s costume sparkles, and the back is wide open save for two thin black straps crossed over each other. She looks—she looks _gorgeous_.

Mila, transfixed, follows Sara’s movements with her jaw slack. Her hands curl into fists, and she presses them against her thighs as Sara takes off for another jump. Mila’s heart drops when Sara stutters, touching her palm down against the ice to keep going.

Sara shakes off the mistake quickly, her step sequence graceful and captivating. Mila watches as Sara’s hips sway, her skates carving swerved lines into the ice. Mila shuts her mouth and swallows thickly, eyes still following Sara.

And then—Triple Lutz-Triple Loop. Sara nails it, and Mila grins brightly, clapping her hands without even thinking about it.

Sara’s performance is over before Mila has time to blink again. She stops with her back facing Mila, and while cheering, Mila eyes the swoops and curves of Sara’s back as she gulps in air, exhausted from performing.

“An outstanding performance!” an announcer says, and Mila has to agree. She has no doubts that Sara will make it to the Grand Prix.

The other skaters’ performances don’t capture Mila’s attention like Sara’s had, and Mila is slightly disappointed that the young girl from the Philippines performs fifth, so she can’t really watch. Mila still makes sure to call out good luck to her when she takes to the ice.

As she warms up, Mila bounces slightly on her skates, rolling her shoulders in circles and head side to side. Mila isn’t facing the rink, but she can tell that the girl performing falls by the reaction of the audience. She heaves a deep breath, letting her eyes flutter shut. Yakov sets his hand on her back— _no_ , his hand is bigger than this.

Opening her eyes, Mila turns her head to see Sara standing just behind her, her hair let out of the bun it had been tied up in earlier and her red lipstick slightly faded. Sara’s hand drifts up, and she traces an embroidered crystal on the shoulder of Mila’s costume.

“Good luck,” she smiles, removing her hand to stuff it into her jacket pocket. Mila turns her body to face Sara, then, and she feels unusually taller than Sara, since she dons her skates.

“Thanks,” Mila replies, eyes softening and heartbeat slowing, if only a touch.

Sara nods, silly grin plastered upon her lips. “You’ll be great. Just—don’t be _too_ great, okay? Don’t beat me.” Sara currently holds first place, and Mila’s the only skater yet to perform.

Her face lights up with a wicked smile. “We’ll see,” she says, lifting a finger to poke Sara’s nose. “We’ll see,” she repeats, sing-song.

When the fifth performer finishes, crying as she skates over to her coach, Sara places her hand on Mila’s upper back and gives her a gentle nudge. “Kill it out there,” she says, and Mila nods, curt.

Yakov barks out a piece of advice as an afterthought when Mila passes him, so Mila nods again. She feels oddly at ease in this tense, expectant atmosphere.

The music starts, and Mila twirls. Her mind is blank, only her and the ice and—purple eyes. They’re taunting, almost. They say, “ _Come on, you can catch me, can’t you_?” Mila jumps and spins, sticking the landing perfectly. “ _I can_ ,” she replies back.

Mila almost feels as if she’s floating above the ice rather than skating on it, floating higher and higher, sitting among the clouds. Her jumps and landings are gentle, graceful. Her footwork is unbound.

And when she slides to a stop, her music fading out and the cheers of the crowd fading in, Mila feels more energized than she’s felt for a long time. She holds her end pose proudly, arms outstretched and head tilted upwards. Flowers, along with other miscellaneous items, are thrown onto the ice.

When Mila finally comes free from her pose, she sees Viktor, Georgi, and Sara standing together, clapping. Viktor motions for Mila to come to them, and so she does.

“Beautiful,” Sara says when Mila is in earshot. “That was beautiful, Mila.”

The feeling of walking on the clouds lingers, even as she sits in the Kiss and Cry.

“That was the best performance of your career,” Yakov says before the score is revealed. Mila doesn’t respond, just stares at the screen.

And later, when Mila stands at the top of the podium, a new personal best under her belt and a gold medal in her hand, Sara stands just beside her.

“See you at the Grand Prix,” Sara says, and she winks.

Mila casts her a mischievous grin. “Get ready to lose.”

—

Sara takes her coffee black.

The current standings after the Grand Prix short program include Mila in second place and Sara in fourth, and since Mila had beat her at the short program, Sara offers to bring her out for coffee. “Fair and square, right?” Sara had said.

Mila wasn’t one to turn her down, so she now sits at a cozy Barcelona cafe, her hands cupped around a travel container full of hot coffee. Sara sips at her own, and Mila almost winces just imagining the bitterness.

“So,” Sara says, setting her cup down and pressing her palms flat against the table. “I haven’t cut my losses just yet, but you’re going to get gold.”

Mila blinks. “I’m going to try,” she offers.

“You _are_ ,” Sara insists. “Imagine the headlines, Mila. ‘ _Russian Beauty Steals Gold From Spain on Home Turf_ ,’ or something.”

“Or something,” Mila repeats, not mentioning that _Russian Beauty_ part and how, for some reason, it causes her heart to jump into her throat.

“ _Mila_ ,” Sara groans, “Have confidence.”

“I do,” Mila deadpans, taking a drink of her coffee. It’s still too hot and it burns her tongue, causing her to flinch away.

Sara chuckles at her, but then speaks again, her eyes glowing with something intense and unrecognizable, “Skate on the clouds again, like last time.”

Mila blinks at her. “You thought I—?”

“Everyone saw it,” Sara says, smiling softly downwards, almost like she’s directing the expression to the table. “It was beautiful, Mila.”

“I—uh, thank you, Sara. Really.” Mila doesn’t quite know the correct way to respond to something like that, but maybe the pink flush settled upon her cheeks speaks for her.

The intensity fades from Sara’s purple eyes when she looks back up, “So, just do that again, and you’re practically set!” she laughs. “But anyway, you know Seung-gil still hasn’t replied to my texts?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Mila replies, and she attempts to take another drink of coffee, which has, thankfully, cooled down by now. “Not to sound… _insensitive_ ,” she tries, lightly, “but I think he’s probably not interested.”

Sara groans. “I know that he’s not,” she admits. “But ever since Michele’s left me alone and I actually _can_ date, it’s like _no one’s_ interested.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Mila hums, thinking that maybe that’s not so true, but suddenly her mouth quirks into a devilish smirk. “Get on the podium, and I’m sure _someone_ will be interested. Chicks dig medals, or whatever.”

“Or is that just _you_ , Mila?” Sara inquires, cheeky smile and teasing wink in tow.

Mila forces laughter. “Maybe it is,” she replies, pretending like her stomach hasn’t just done a somersault. _Interested in Sara—?_

“Too bad Otabek didn’t get a medal, then, eh?” Sara says, casting Mila another melodramatic wink. _Oh_. So, Sara didn’t intend it the same way as Mila interpreted it.

Sara’s eyes lock onto Mila, curiously awaiting her reaction. Mila internally lets out a deep sigh, but plays along to the best of her ability, “Yeah, too bad.”

Sara shakes her head. “Well, if I get on the podium and somehow _still_ nobody’s interested, you’re gonna have to answer to me.”

“Alright,” Mila snorts, “But don’t think too far ahead. Podium, first.”

Sara nods as if she’s taking orders. “Got it.”

—

There’s a whole different kind of atmosphere at the Grand Prix Final this year. This year, Mila isn’t the underdog that she’s always been—she’s a contender for gold. And since Yuri had taken gold, another certain weight sits upon Mila’s shoulders, an expectation of sorts.

She knows as soon as it’s determined that she’s to perform first that it’s going to be extremely hard to “skate on the clouds” like she did at the Rostelecom Cup. Maybe the planets were aligned when that happened, because the way that Mila feels now tells her that it’s never going to happen again.

As Mila warms up, eyeing the fresh ice with anxious determination, she feels someone approach her from behind. She turns, and she’s not _disappointed_ to see Viktor and Yuuri—really, she’s not—but maybe she had been hoping to see Sara.

Without even saying hello, Viktor reaches and presses his palms to Mila’s face, squishing her cheeks together. The cold metal of his ring stands out in stark contrast to his warmer hands.

“You’re all grown up,” he says, and Mila looks desperately over to Yuuri, pleading for him to keep his fiancé in check. Yuuri offers her a helpless shrug.

“Please stop,” Mila replies, but since her face is embarrassingly smushed together, the words come out distorted. “You’re not my parent.”

Viktor retracts his hands, and in their absence, Mila brings her own hands to her cheeks, as though guarding them from another parental assault from Viktor.

And just as Viktor opens his mouth to speak again, Yakov calls out for Mila, so Mila just smacks Viktor playfully on the shoulder and goes to her coach. Viktor pouts, apparently disappointed that he didn’t get to say whatever inspirational thing he had planned. Just because he’s a coach now, Mila thinks, doesn’t mean he’s better at pep talks, so she’s almost glad she doesn’t have to hear it.

Whatever Yakov tells her goes in one ear and out the other, and she feels as though she’s stumbling as she enters the rink.

Mila’s never been good with expectations.

When she was young, people expected her to become a doctor or a lawyer or something _stable_. “Why ice skating?” they would ask, “That will never pay off, and you’re so smart!” She’d managed to shoo them away, but at this particular moment, the words come back, bouncing around the insides of her head.

And at her senior debut, people expected a female Viktor Nikiforov, not Mila Babicheva. She had the same coach and even trained with Viktor, so they didn’t see any reason as to why she wouldn’t be just as good. Mila sorely disappointed them.

But last year, when all Mila had to do was outdo herself from the year prior, the expectations were low. She prospered.

 _Now_ , though—now, the expectations are mountainous. If she fails, what will all those people from her past say? “You should’ve stuck with school, gone to college,” she can hear. “You never quite fulfilled your potential, did you?”

Mila inhales deeply, trying to clear her thoughts.

“Mila!” she hears from the edge of the rink, and her eyes snap over. “Good luck!” Sara calls, and Mila lets out the breath.

The music begins, and the expectations are high.

—

Third place is still on the podium; third place still grants a medal. Third place is not a failure, but Mila can’t help but feel like it is. She stands there and she smiles at the cameras, holding the bronze medal up, but it feels grossly disingenuous.

Sara smiles and waves at Mila from behind the cameras, and for only a second, the fraudulent feeling subsides. She smiles back at Sara, instead of at the cameras.

—

Mila feigns a headache to get out of going to the banquet. Yakov raises an eyebrow and Viktor pouts when she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, requesting Yakov’s permission to go back to her room and “sleep it off.” Reluctant, Yakov lets her go.

So here she sits, donned in sweatpants and a shirt that’s a few sizes too big—she might have stolen it from Viktor, actually, but she can’t recall—and complete with a bag of potato chips in her lap. She flicks through channels on the television, but everything’s in Spanish, and while maybe Viktor’s fluent in French and Spanish, Mila hardly knows a lick of either.

She sighs. She needs to stop comparing herself to Viktor. (It’s just hard when that’s what everyone else has been doing her entire career.)

After giving up and settling on a Spanish movie just for background noise, Mila flicks absentmindedly through her social media. She finds her mind wandering to Sara, who’s probably at the banquet flirting with one of the male skaters.

The thought causes Mila to heave out a sigh, but she decides to just be thankful she doesn’t have to play wingwoman.

Mila’s promptly proven wrong when there’s a rap on her door, and Sara’s voice calls out, “Mila! Come let me in, I know you’re in here!”

Taken aback, Mila hesitates before she sets the bag of chips off to the side and swings her legs off of the edge of the bed. She pads across the hotel carpet and sets her hand on the doorknob, taking a breath to slightly compose herself before she opens the door.

“Hey,” she says when she’s face-to-face with Sara, and when Sara eyes what she’s wearing, she guiltily looks down, too.

“Mila,” Sara states, “I’m coming in.”

Mila opens the door further to allow Sara inside, but pretty Sara in her short purple dress just does not fit the atmosphere of the room.

“Why’d you come?” Mila asks, watching as Sara seats herself on the edge of the bed.

Sara scoffs. “Are you not happy to see me?”

Mila bites her bottom lip instead of responding, so Sara sighs.

“You feel weird about winning bronze, don’t you?” she inquires, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

Mila takes a few steps forward and sits next to Sara, their thighs only a few centimeters apart. Sara watches Mila intently, but Mila makes no move to return her gaze.

“I shouldn’t feel bad about it,” Mila says to her lap.

“You shouldn’t,” Sara nods in agreement, “but, you do.”

“I guess.”

Sara hums, contemplative. “You still beat me,” she comments after a few moments of silence.

“I know,” Mila frowns.

“Hey,” Sara says, lifting a hand to Mila’s face. She takes gentle hold of Mila’s jaw to guide her head upwards, so that their eyes meet. “Cheer up.”

Sara’s hand lingers and Mila’s throat feels dry, but she manages to mumble, “They wanted me to get gold.”

“ _They_?”

Mila sighs. “You know. Yakov, Viktor, the audience. _You_.”

Sara’s hand drops. “Of course we wanted you to get gold, silly,” she replies, smiling gently. “We want you to succeed.”

“And I didn’t?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sara shakes her head, her hands again intertwining in her lap. “You’re still _amazing_ , Mila. Bronze is amazing.”

Mila purses her lips for a moment, before: “You really think that?”

Sara huffs out a bit of soft laughter. “Why would I say it if I thought otherwise?”

“Hm,” Mila hums, and then she flops backwards onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sara looks back over her shoulder at her. “Consolation?” Mila offers, crossing her arms behind her head. “Pity?”

Sara groans, turning away from Mila. “Definitely not. I can’t pity someone who did _better_ than me.”

Mila promptly shuts her mouth. _I’m being insensitive_ , she thinks.

“Third in the entire _world_ , Mila. That’s amazing.” Sara follows Mila’s example from moments ago and falls onto her back, but instead of putting her arms behind her head, she reaches and taps her index finger to one of Mila’s arms.

Mila furrows her eyebrows, turning her head to stare at Sara. Sara taps her arm again, so Mila frees it from under her head. Sara cuffs her hand lightly around Mila’s forearm, dragging upwards until their palms press together. After she entwines their fingers, Sara holds their hands up towards the ceiling. She stares up at them, so Mila does, too.

“I guess you’re right,” Mila says, gaze transfixed on the way Sara’s skin contrasts Mila’s as their fingers slot between each other.

“I _am_ right,” Sara states, and she lets their hands fall onto the bed between them.

And as much as Mila doesn’t want to let go or to usher Sara out, she figures that keeping her here is selfish. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the banquet?”

Sara clicks her tongue. “Nah,” she says.

Mila looks dubiously at her. “Are you sure? I’m sure there are some… prospects there.”

“ _Prospects_ ,” Sara says, as if she’s testing the word on her tongue.

“Mhm.”

“I think that I’d rather stay here for the night,” Sara voices, and it makes Mila’s chest feel hot. “Do you have extra clothes?”

“I—Yeah. Sure, let me get you some.”

They sit up simultaneously, and their hands slip apart when Mila stands, treading over to her suitcase. She hadn’t packed much, but she has a pair of running shorts and a shirt that Sara will probably fit into.

“You know,” Sara says as Mila passes her the clothes, “Those _prospects_ or whatever—they don’t actually matter that much.”

Mila stares at Sara, blinks, and then starts to laugh. “Says the one who told me earlier that I’d have to answer to her if she didn’t get a boyfriend by getting on the podium.”

“I was _joking_ ,” Sara sounds distressed, “I’m not _that_ desperate for a boyfriend.”

“Are you sure?” Mila doesn’t try to dampen the laughter that continues to bubble out from her chest.

“I’m _sure_ ,” Sara stresses, though playfulness is clear in her tone. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“You’ve about flirted with every skater in the Men’s competitions, besides the Yuris,” Mila deadpans, and then she starts to list while counting on her fingers, “Seung-gil, Emil, Phi—”

“Stop!” Sara pleads, finally standing from the bed to make her way to the bathroom, loaned clothes folded over her arms. “Don’t do this to me, Mila. You’re evil.” Sara clicks the bathroom door shut behind her for emphasis.

And as Sara changes, Mila can’t really help but wonder what she’d meant by saying that, earlier—that potential boyfriends don’t really matter. It surely implies that _Mila_ does matter, but she decides not to read too much into it.

She feels a lot better now, though, anyway. Just Sara’s presence has managed to lift Mila’s mood from where she’d before cast it like a message in a bottle into the sea.

Before Mila can really think about that, Sara emerges from the bathroom, now decked in Mila’s clothes, with her face looking freshly washed. She lays her dress across the back of one of the hotel room’s chairs.

“Fit okay?” Mila asks, and Sara nods.

“A little big,” she says, tugging on the bottom hem of the shirt, which almost covers the running pants underneath. “But, it’s fine.”

“Good, good.”

“Yeah.”

Sara proceeds to walk over to the bed and flop face-first down onto it.

“I’m exhausted,” she groans, outstretching her arms on either side of her before flipping herself over.

“Me, too,” Mila agrees, and as if to prove so, she yawns.

“Aw,” Sara comments, and Mila glances back at her.

“What?”

“Your yawn,” she explains. “It was cute.”

“Oh,” Mila says, and blushes.

They’re quiet for a moment, before Sara heaves the hotel blanket over herself. Mila stands from where she sits on the bed and heads towards the bathroom to brush her teeth. After doing so, Mila emerges from the bathroom to see Sara looking pointedly up at the lamp. Taking the hint, Mila turns off the lamp and climbs into the bed on the side not already occupied.

Mila peers into the darkness, unsure whether or not she can sleep with Sara—warm and soft and _beautiful_ —beside her.

“Hey, Mila?”

It seems as though Sara can’t quite sleep, either.

“Mm?”

“Do you have any of these so-called _prospects_?” she inquires, turning on her side to face Mila. Mila follows suit, though they can hardly see each other in the dark.

Mila hesitates to respond. “I don’t,” she settles on. “What about you? Who’s your next target?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Sara says, and Mila chuckles. “But yeah, I have someone in mind.”

“Really?” Mila’s a little curious even if—and she admits to this, now—she’ll just be jealous of whoever it turns out to be.

“Mhm,” Sara hums. “Wanna guess?”

Mila turns back to lie facing the ceiling. “Don’t tell me it’s Christophe.”

“No!” Sara exclaims, and then giggles. “Really, no. Besides, doesn’t he have a boyfriend?”

“Are you saying he would be a viable option if he _didn’t_ have a boyfriend?”

“That’s definitely not what I’m saying,” Sara snorts. “Anyway, try to guess again. You could just try hair color? Or maybe eye color.”

Mila grimaces. “Don’t sound so dreamy when you say ‘eye color.’ It’s gross.”

“Maybe they have really nice eyes!” Sara defends, and Mila rolls her own eyes.

“Fine. Blue.”

“Hair or eyes?”

“Do we know anyone with blue hair?”

“Touché.” Sara pauses. “But yeah, blue eyes.”

Mila hums as she tries to think of someone they both know with blue eyes. She abruptly stops humming when—“No. _No_.”

“What?” Sara asks innocently.

“Please say that it’s not Georgi. For the love of god, tell me it’s not Georgi.”

Sara covers her mouth to muffle her laughter. “It’s not Georgi!”

Mila lets out a sigh of relief. “Don’t get me wrong,” she says, “I love Georgi and I want him to be happy, but…”

“I know what you mean,” Sara assures, “If you told me that you were interested in Michele or something, I’d probably blow a gasket.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mila replies. “I’m not.”

Sara chuckles, “Good to hear. Want to guess again?”

Mila purses her lips. “Brown hair?”

“No.”

“Black hair?”

“Nope.”

“Blond?”

“No.”

“It’s not Viktor.” Mila says, just because she has to make sure.

Sara chokes out of surprise. “It’s _not_ Viktor. Try again.”

Mila racks her brain for more people, but she’s strapped for ideas. “Give me a hint?” she suggests, and Sara gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment before she gives in.

“Okay,” she says, “Try red hair.”

“Red—” Mila cuts herself off. She blinks once and then another time before she shifts to face Sara. “Forgive me… if this is wrong, but—”

“It’s probably not wrong,” Sara says, and Mila wishes that a light was on, so that maybe she’d be able to better read Sara’s facial expression.

“Is it, maybe, uh—” Mila stops, both composing herself and readying for denial, “Is it me?”

Sara hums in affirmation, rolling onto her back. Mila, heart pounding in her chest, eyes the shaded outline of Sara’s face, the curve of her nose and jut of her lips and chin.

“Are you just going to stare?” Sara asks after a few passing moments, but her usual confident, teasing tone is missing.

Mila swallows, and it’s loud in the otherwise silent room.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mila breathes. The air of the room feels unreal, tense in an expectant and shellshocked way.

“Something good,” Sara suggests, “preferably.”

“Yeah,” Mila says.

Sara reaches her hands upwards, staring up at their silhouette against the ceiling. “Do you feel that way, too?” she questions, and it comes out as a more of a whisper than anything.

In lieu of answering right away, Mila reaches and grabs hold of one of Sara’s hands. Once their fingers are intertwined, Sara’s hand warm against Mila’s cooler one, Mila says, “It’s mutual.”

Sara lets out a breath she must’ve been holding in wait.

“But,” Mila continues, and Sara’s breathing hitches again. “This better not be a ploy to get me to go _easier_ on you next year. I’m still going to beat you.”

Sara barks out a laugh, “It’s not!” she swears, squeezing Mila’s hand before pressing it to her chest, just below the dip between her collarbones.

“ _And_ ,” Mila states, and she thinks that Viktor would be proud of her, for making sure she’s treated the way she ought to be treated, “This better not be a final resort kind of thing.”

Sara grimaces. “It’s not,” she says, “I know I’ve flirted with—like, everyone. It just took me awhile to realize…”

Mila wiggles her hand free from Sara’s to poke at her nose. “That I was right here?”

“Or something,” Sara says. “I think I realized at Rostelecom, when you performed your free skate.”

Mila smiles softly. “Really?”

Sara nods. “And, you know, chicks dig medals. Even bronze ones.”

—

Mila learns the next year that chicks—namely Sara—dig gold medals even more.

They’re tipsy from the banquet champagne—or, Sara’s tipsy and Mila’s practically sober—and Sara giggles as she leans into Mila’s side, her hands wrapped around Mila’s bicep. They stumble together through the hotel hallways, occasionally pressing up against the walls to regain balance.

“Number one in the _world_ , Mila,” Sara speaks, dreamy. “You did it again—skated on the clouds.”

Mila laughs, feeling pleasantly warm from the bit of alcohol or Sara or both, “You’ve said that at least twenty times already.”

“Mm,” Sara hums, “Well, I’ll say it again. You were _gorgeous_ out there.”

“So were you,” Mila says, and when they get to their room, she struggles to get the hotel key card into the slot on the door with Sara hanging off of her.

Sara presses a sticky lipglossed kiss to Mila’s cheek as Mila finally gets the door open, twisting the handle and ushering Sara inside.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Sara whirls around Mila, the bottom of her dress flaring around her. “It’s been a whole year, can you believe it?” she says, and she abruptly stops twirling to set her hands on Mila’s shoulders and lean up, planting a kiss on her lips.

Mila smiles into the kiss. “Happy one year,” she replies, and Sara languidly pulls away.

After padding across the hotel carpet to the bed, where Mila’s gold medal lays just next to Sara’s bronze one, Sara takes Mila’s medal, settling down onto the bed and observing the medal as it sits on her palm.

“Always wanted to…” Sara trails, and then she presses her lips against the cool, golden medal.

Mila watches contentedly, her heart full. She doesn’t get to see Sara often, since they live so far apart, so she cherishes the times they are really together and not just video chatting tenfold.

“Remember that that’s mine,” Mila calls out playfully, and Sara glares at her eyes light up with something mischievous.

Sara slips the medal around her neck. “Come and get it, then,” she dares, and Mila smiles, shaking her head fondly before she approaches her girlfriend.

Mila stands before Sara, who looks up at her from where she sits on the edge of the bed. Mila reaches for the medal, but Sara cups her hands around it. “Not that easy,” she scolds, holding the medal against her chest.

“Hm,” Mila hums, “Okay.”

She leans down, prompting Sara to tilt her head upwards. Once their lips connect, Mila brings her hands up to cradle each side of Sara’s neck. Sara relaxes into the touches, lazily moving her mouth against Mila’s until she transfers her hands from cupping around the medal to resting on Mila’s hips.

Taking the moment of vulnerability to her advantage, Mila loops her fingers around the ribbon that holds the medal around Sara’s neck, and she breaks the kiss to heave the medal off of Sara.

“Ha!” she exclaims, hanging the ribbon around her own neck. The medal dangles victoriously just above Mila’s bellybutton.

Sara doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and kiss the medal where it hangs. She peers up at Mila through her eyelashes, and she says, “I like it like this, too.”

Mila flushes.

—

Somehow, over the years, over all the competitions and the banquets, Sara on the ice and Sara off the ice meld into one. She’s always soft, she’s always determined, she’s always passionate, and she’s always, _always_ beautiful. She’s still Mila’s competitor, of course, but she’s more than just that—more than what she used to be.

They both are.

And Mila thinks that is wonderful. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments, kudos, and bookmarks are the coolest!! thanks for reading!


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